


Sophomore Slump or Comeback of the Year

by queenlara



Series: College Verse (the "of All Time" verse) [5]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlara/pseuds/queenlara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The greatest school riot of All Time. Or, how Natasha and Steve come up with a brilliant plan to increase school spirit, and per usual, things don't go as planned. Natasha also deals with the aftermath of her and Steve's disastrous streetrace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grand Theft Autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Human beings in a mob. What’s a mob to a king? What’s a king to a god? What’s a god to a non-believer?
> 
> Anyways, a big thanks to Tina for proofreading this and helping me come up with shit. Also, a lot of this comes from real life experience, as last week we accidentally attended our first couch burning riot when our school beat our Eternal Rivals. 
> 
> Title comes from Fall Out Boy. Also, I claim no ownership of the characters or the Marvel Cinematic Universe.

“We don’t have a lot of school spirit,” Steve comments as the foursome sits in the bleachers of the musty gymnasium, mostly quiet as their basketball team—the Eagles—play against another local team.

“Can’t argue with that,” Sam adds, clapping as they shoot a basket. “It makes it kind of boring. But to be honest, it’s hard to have school spirit when our team generally sucks.”

Natasha is honestly surprised that a tumblr dweeb like Sam would be into sports, and when she mentions that, he just grins and tells her he’s a man of many mysteries. She barely contains an eyeroll at that.

James scoffs at that. “Well, there’s not a lot we can do about that. We’re not that great, and too much school spirit is annoying.”

Natasha doesn’t say anything at that, the cogs turning in her mind. Not enough school spirit, hmm? She may be in college by the graces of a certain, one-eyed Chancellor, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try to make it a good time.

And besides, after the street racing, she’s been watching Steve closely, almost protectively, and if she can make him happy, she _will_. Natasha wonders when she became so protective of her little group, so concerned with her happiness, but she brushes it off. As James would say, she has a harebrained scheme to concoct.

Later, after they lost by twelve points and the small student section had dispersed from the gymnasium, the redhead is sprawled on her stomach on her twin bed, scrolling through youtube. She had bid goodbye to the three boys, claiming “girl stuff” as her reason to skip their weekly late night trip to Bojangles. She knows she incited the curiosity of at least James, because she _never, ever_ missed an opportunity to go to Bojangles. Call her crazy, but those boberry biscuits were addicting. Natasha had once joked that they must lace it with crack, but honestly, she wouldn’t be surprised if they did.

“Natasha, why are you watching pyromaniacs on youtube?” Sharon asks, rifling through her drawer for a clean t-shirt. “Is that...is that a _couch? On fire?_ ” Sharon leans over Natasha’s shoulder, watching with morbid curiosity as blurry college students circled around the couch, dancing around it like members of a cult.

“WVU always celebrates big wins by lighting a couch on fire,” she says, and Sharon shrugs and moves to sit at her desk. The blonde had already adjusted to her roommate’s eccentricities, and if she wanted to watch youtube videos of students rioting, then by god she’d do it.

**********

“Let me get this straight: you want permission to light a couch on fire? Now, tell me Miss Romanoff, why the _fuck_ would I agree to that?” Fury says incredulously, hands folded on the top of his polished desk.

“Because, _Chancellor_ , this is not a simple couch burning: this is school spirit. It’s a matter of pride. Even if you’re undercover as a temporary Chancellor for the university, that doesn’t mean you should do a half-assed job.” Natasha states calmly, leaning forward to slap both her hands on the desk.

“Are you accusing me of half-assing this?”

“It’s only a suggestion, but Hill and Coulson are already on board.”

“Did you go behind my back to the force about this?”

Natasha plops down in one of the chairs in front of the desk, crossing her legs and leaning forward. “It will make your tenure seem _much_ more authentic.”

“It doesn’t look like I have a choice in this, Romanoff. Go ahead, but if this gets out of hand I will drag Barnes in here and tell him exactly _how_ much you’ve been helping the task force out with the local gang activity. I’m sure Mister Barnes would have _kittens_ if he knows you’ve been sent undercover,” Fury threatens, and Natasha hides a smile. He would only resort to threats if he knew he lost the argument. Without further conversation, Natasha gets up and tries not to swagger out of the room. By Fury’s quiet cursing behind her, she assumes that she failed.

**********

Steve raises his eyebrows at Natasha, who is busy looking at her phone and attempting to look innocent after banishing Bucky and Sam until they came back with Cookout. She’s failing miserably, but Steve decides not to tell her that. Because if looks could kill, he (and Sam, and Bucky, and Tony...the list goes on) would already be dead twice over.

“Is there any reason you sent Bucky and Sam to get cookout even though I know you got Taco Bell an hour ago with the scrapbooking club?” Steve finally asks, receiving a smug grin from the redhead.

“You’re my favorite detective, Rogers,” Natasha drawls. “Now, I have a plan, and James has been riding my ass ever since that street racing incident with Rumlow, so I had to distract him,” she says, dropping her phone on the bed and propping herself up on her elbows. Steve nods to signal that he’s listening, closing his sketchbook and dropping it on his desk.

“This is a big plan, Rogers, and I’ve already made the necessary arrangements with the Chancellor—don’t ask, but he owes me—and we’re going to singlehandedly increase our school spirit.”

“Are we now? How do you propose we do that, Romanoff? Dress as cheerleaders?” Steve asks wryly, and Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Rogers, please. Now if you’re looking for an opportunity to wear a cheerleading uniform around James, this is not the time. However, I do have a friend who may be able to help—”

“Natasha. Um. Can we get back on topic?” Steve asks, face turning bright red.

“I’m so glad you asked, Rogers. So, we’re slated to go against the Cobras next week, and we have a good chance of winning. Now, we’re not _allowed_ to do anything at the game, because Fury was concerned we might be sued or something—he cited “ours is not to reason why,” or some shit; we’re handling the after party. I’ve already got all the girls in the scrapbooking club in on this, but we’re all going to swarm the quad after we win. There will be singing, cheering, chanting, and _fire._ ” Natasha lists off, counting each on her finger, and Steve raises a hand to stop her.

 _“Fire?”_ He asks, half worried and half intrigued, ignoring the voice in his mind that sounded suspiciously like Bucky that this was a _Bad Idea_. (As opposed to a _bad idea_ , which is what Bucky classified events like him trying to fight Rumlow at that frat party, or he and Natasha doing skate tricks on the rickety railing by the soccer field. _Bad Ideas_ were considered anything that involved cops, paramedics, and probably firefighters. This had the potential for all three. _C-c-c-combo breaker.)_

Natasha picks up her phone again, tapping and swiping on the screen. “It’s a tradition, people burn couches to celebrate their teams winning.” Natasha shows him her phone, a shaky video of people pouring gasoline on a couch and lighting it on fire, chanting “WVU! WVU!”

Steve snorts. “Are you sure this isn’t just an excuse to piss Bucky off?”

“Steve, I’m hurt. This is for the sake of _school spirit._ ” Natasha has the gall to look offended.

“Okay, whatever. I’m only going along with this because it’s rude to accuse a lady of lying,” Steve says, and Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Please, I know you’re an adrenaline junkie, no need to lie. _Anyways_. I need you to get the anime club and the cooking club to show up at the quad after the game. Someone also needs to bring a vuvuzela.”

“A what?”

“It’s a plastic bugle thing that people like to use at sporting events. Also, does Peggy have a spare couch we can use?”

“No, but the cooking club is thinking about getting rid of their old one, and I think someone has a pickup truck we can use to transport it with.”

“I like the way you’re thinking, Rogers.”

**********

The following week, the Eagles play the Cobras in the latter’s arena, and Natasha is decked out in an Eagle jersey and comfy leggings, her face decorated in war paint. There’s a knock on the door of her dorm room, and Steve is on the other side, face also painted and dressed in his own gear.

Natasha claps him on the shoulder. “Looking good, soldier. We have a mission to complete. This will be the greatest display of school spirit of _all time_.”

“Awaiting orders, ma’am.”

“Are James and Sam sufficiently distracted?” Natasha asks, slinging a backpack over one shoulder and grabbing her keys.

“Yeah, the game is going really well, they’re getting into it. I also have one of my cooking club friends in the lounge where the game is playing, so they’ll get everyone to join us in the quad by the eagle statue at the end.”

When looking back on this, Natasha realizes she should have realized that this would spiral wildly out of hand, but she had predicted one thing: this would be the greatest show of school spirit in their universities history, and by the end there would be no less than four couches, two speedos, and seven vuvuzelas sacrificed in the name of school spirit.

**********

The dorm lounge erupts in cheers as the timer announces that the game is finished, with the Eagles beating their rivals with an astounding showing of 56-52. Sam swears he hears shrill bugling coming from the hallway as the students jump to their feet, cheering and hugging each other.

A cute girl by the name of Angie calls over the din, “Hey! A whole bunch of people are going to the quad to decorate the eagle statue to celebrate! Let’s go!”

Sam didn’t think anything of it then, but it was the spark that lit the forest. He and Bucky are pushed along with the crowd, the cheering and chanting around them infectious. Once out of the building, a guy in a speedo that looked suspiciously like the American flag sprinted by them, a vuvuzela in one hand and a foam finger in the other, screaming unintelligibly as he streaks towards the quad. Spurned on by the crowds pouring out of the surrounding dorms, he and Bucky pick up the pace, completely caught up in the enthusiasm tangible around.

“Wilson, have you seen Rogers?” Bucky asks as they jog towards the quad, and Sam frowns thoughtfully in response.

“No, I haven’t, come to think of it. Also, where the hell’s Natasha? She loves watching the game so she can curse in Russian when the ref’s make a bad call,” Sam answers, but the query is quickly answered when they reach the quad, and the Russian in question is hanging from the top of the statue, singing the alma mater and placing a foam finger over the beak of the eagle. The students are standing in a circle around the statue, swaying as they sing along.

“There’s Nat, but where’s—”

Bucky’s question is cut off by the roar of a pickup truck, the students parting like the red sea around it, and Steve hanging out the passenger side, hooting and hollering as Tony drives.

Hopping out, they unload a ratty couch from the bed, and the students’ interest is piqued as they heft it out, placing it ten feet in front of the statue, and once Natasha procures a red gas can ( _where the hell was she keeping that,_ Sam wonders), still hanging from the statue, and she tosses it down to Steve, who liberally douses the poor couch.

“They’re not,” Bucky mutters, grabbing Sam’s arm and pushing his way through the crowd, a vein in his temple throbbing. “I will fucking kill them. _Legitimately end their lives._ That will be less annoying than them risking their lives in creatively obnoxious ways. I swear they do this just to annoy me.”

 _Just how dense can you be, Barnes. That’s exactly why they do it_ , Sam thinks, but wisely keeps his mouth shut.

The voices babbling around them emerge into something understandable—a slightly eerie and cult-like chant of “ _Burn that shit. Burn that shit._ ” The crowd keeps this up until Natasha shimmies down from the statue and with a bow and a grin, takes her zippo lighter to the couch. It promptly bursts into flames, the students cheer, and a vuvuzela begins to frantically toot.

“I swear to god. _Dead._ ” Bucky mutters, more to himself than anything, and Sam smothers a grin.

**********

Natasha grins as the students erupt into a frenzy as the couch burns, and mob mentality will never fail to amuse her. She moves to stand next to Steve and claps his shoulder. “Nice going, Rogers.”

“Don’t I get a thank you, too?” Tony smirks, and Natasha gives him a punch on the arm. Friendly, but enough to remind him to not mess with her.

He rubs his arm, but his attention moves to the crowd, who are all screaming like rabid monkeys. “Woo! Anarchy!” he cheers, and the crowd roars in response.

Natasha can see Rumlow along with some of his cronies, and she fights the urge to drag him into a dark alley and beat the shit out of him. Ward, too—who the _fuck_ brings a gun to a street race, loaded or not.

All in all, the night is going well—she’s seen at least two guys wearing speedos and nothing else, even though it’s cold as balls out, and a surprising amount of people with those little vuvuzelas. They make a racket, bugling loudly over the din of wild students, and Natasha gives herself a little mental pat on the back. _Job well done, Romanoff_.

Her feeling of smug satisfaction melts away when Rumlow and Ward fight their way to the frontlines of the circle, each carrying two different Cobra jerseys. (Quietly, Natasha wonders, _why do they even own Cobra jerseys?_ )

They toss them onto the merrily burning couch, and the volume of the crowd escalates, and for the first time that night, Natasha wonders why she didn’t consider mob mentality _before_ lighting the couch on fire. _Hindsight is 20/20, after all._

A metal hand clamps down on her shoulder, and Natasha stuffs down any self doubt she was feeling to turn and face James.

“Glad you could make it to the party,” she says breezily, ignoring the stoney look on his face.

“Natasha, I can only wonder if you were absent when we talked about the phenomenon of groupthink in psychology class,” James starts, “people tend to be more extreme with their opinions and their actions when in a large, emotional crowd.”

“Thanks for the lecture, Barnes, but if I wanted to learn about psychology I’d actually attend that god-awful class,” she answers, turning back to face the issue at hand, and Natasha thinks James might actually back down when someone throws a speedo into the fire, and the crowd again roars in approval.

“It might be a good idea to call Coulson,” she admits, and James bites back a curse. Waving away his clucking, she’s already dialing the cop, watching as someone chucks a vuvuzela onto the blazing couch. James’ grip tightens on her shoulder.

“Coulson,” the man in question answers.

“Can you get a firefighter here? They’re going a _little_ crazy with the fire.” Natasha hedges, trying to pretend James isn’t listening in.

“Already one en route. I thought it might be an issue,” Coulson replies smoothly, and Natasha thanks her lucky stars. Today will not be the day that she admits to James that one of her harebrained schemes has gotten out of hand.

Listening to the steady approach of the sirens, she turns to gloat to her foster brother. “I told you it was handled,” Natasha says, tossing her hair back. James raises his other hand, pointing to where Rumlow and Ward have somehow procured _another_ couch and are in the process of pouring gasoline and tree branches on it about fifty feet to the left of the statue, and the crowd presses forward, moving towards the new attraction.

The second couch goes up in flames, and Natasha winces. Rumlow was not a variable she had considered in her grand plan, though she should have. _Asshole._

More and more students were throwing things on the flames—pom poms, t shirts, more vuvuzelas—and James raises an eyebrow.

“You have things under control?”

“I may have made a slight miscalculation,” Natasha offers, and when James scowls more, she adds defensively, “I only act like I know everything, Barnes.”

James opens his mouth to argue, but Sam drags Steve over by his shirt collar, interrupting them.

“Romanoff, did you know that over in greek court they’re lighting _another_ couch on fire?” Wilson interjects, and Steve has the audacity to look ashamed, like _he_ was the one who suggested they find a couch to light on fire. No, that was all on Natasha, and she is woman enough to admit it. Maybe.

“Where do they keep getting all these couches?” Natasha asks. “It was a _bitch_ just getting this one. The cooking club did not want to let it go.”

_“Natasha.”_

“All right, all right,” she says, hands raised defensively. “I’ve got this.”

Before James can add anything else, she tosses her phone to him, which is already re-dialing Coulson, and she runs to the base of the eagle statue. Hoisting herself up, she climbs to the top of it, using the outstretched wings to balance herself.

“Everybody, run! _The cops are coming_!” She shouts as loudly as she can, and the students fall into silence for a brief second, and then all hell breaks loose. The students sprint—no, practically _stampede_ —in their anxiety to escape the fuzz. They scramble towards the safety of the dorms that surround the quad, only a few drunken stragglers still surrounding the two burning couches. Glancing down, Natasha sees James standing with his arms crossed over his chest.

“That is not what I meant, _and you know it,_ Natasha,” he calls up to her, and she shrugs in response.

“It got the job done, didn’t it?” Natasha answers, climbing down the back of the eagle and jumping to the ground. Landing in a crouch, she looks up to him, trying to ignore Sam and Steve shaking with laughter in the background.

“We’ll discuss this later. Coulson is sending some firefighters here and to Greek Court to deal with the _celebration_ ,” he says, air quotes heavily implied on the last word.

“Uh, you should also send them to Poe. Apparently the anime club got their hands on a couch and felt the need to light it on fire. In full cosplay.” Steve winces, and James just covers his face with a hand. “It’s not their fault!” Steve jumps quickly to their defence, “those assholes in the furry club probably started it.”

“I think you’re making it worse, Rogers,” Sam says, and James does not say anything for a moment, but she can see his face turning red with rage under his hand.

“You guys are dead. I swear to god.”

 

 


	2. I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha finally deals with Rumlow and Ward, post "Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown On a Bad Bet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title, again, from Fall Out Boy. This won't make much sense if you haven't read "Headfirst Slide Into Cooperstown On a Bad Bet," or part four of the College Verse.

Three days after what Sam dubs the “night of the burning couches”, Natasha waves goodbye to her teammates on the mixed martial arts team and checks her phone.

She had managed to “locate” (more like bribe Stark, but whatever) Rumlow’s and Ward’s phone numbers, and pretending to be Steve, she had arranged a “meetup” (in more blunt terms, a fight) to defend her honor. Glad that they didn’t have the foresight to make sure it was actually Rogers texting them; she checks her thigh holster to make sure that her favorite knife was there. Dressed in a floral crop-top and a black skater skirt—with spandex shorts underneath, of course—Natasha looks unassuming and unthreatening.

She is going to teach them a _lesson_.

Natasha hated Rumlow on sight—making a joke about her boobs and then rape in quick succession, he moved to the top of her shitlist before he could even take another sip of his warm beer.

And then, he insulted Rogers and Barnes, dissed Sam, and had his friend bring a gun to a street race.

Ward was just as bad as Rumlow, though he was quieter about it. Natasha had a sneaking suspicion that Ward was the smarter of the two, but he was obviously content to hide behind Rumlow’s loudmouth nature. He had been arrested as a child for arson and attempted murder, and had been mysteriously bailed out. Later, he had been brought up on charges of assault against an ex-girlfriend, and those charges were _also_ mysteriously dropped. Skye had once, in a fit of drunken tears, told Nat that she used to date him and that he didn’t take the breakup well—stalking not only Skye but also her girlfriend Jemma until the latter had insisted Skye needed a restraining order. The university, in its infinite wisdom, did not see it necessary to kick Ward out. _Title IX my ass_ , she thinks, _they’re more concerned with their reputation and keeping the peace than anything_.

Honestly, Natasha didn’t care for the particulars of the situation, but both of them needed to be taught a lesson. And if she was the teacher, then their sexist man-pride would keep them from tattling on her—afraid to admit they were whooped by a _girl_.

She had already thoroughly investigated out the alley in question—close to where the street race was held, with no security cameras to be found. She had already hid an emergency first aid kit, pepper spray, and a taser under the dumpster. Never let it be said that she was unprepared. Ever since she and James had been surprised at the drop site, she always had a backup cache and scoped the location.

Dropping her backpack behind a trashcan a block from the alley, Natasha makes her way to the drop point. At the edge of the dark alley, she stops, pressing herself against the wall and listening carefully.

“I can’t believe Rogers was _stupid_ enough to meet us here. They won’t find enough of him to make a smear on the ground,” Rumlow’s voice drifts to her, and Natasha clenches her fist.

“The faggot got us fucking arrested,” Ward adds. “We don’t even need a gun, since the cops fucking took it after that bitch had a panic attack or some shit. I can’t believe he tattled on us to the _chancellor,_ ” he spits, and the Natasha attempts to stifle the murderous hatred in her gut. Steven Grant Rogers may be a nerd, but he is _sweet_ , and he is _kind_ , and it’s more than she can say for the two shitheads in the alley.

Eyes narrowing, Natasha takes a deep breath to calm herself, and strolls nonchalantly into the alley.

“Hello, boys,” she says, voice slightly sultry as Ward and Rumlow turn to her, their shoulders stiffening in surprise. She takes note of the weapons in their hands—a steel pipe in Ward’s, and a bat in Rumlow’s. As they said, no gun necessary, and her lips curl into a feral grin.

Ward makes the mistake of dropping his pipe, attempting to kick it under the dumpster to hide it from her.

“Romanoff, don’t you know crashing a party is rude?” Rumlow smirks, swinging his bat over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised suggestively.

“I don’t see how this is a party,” Natasha answers seriously, flexing her fingers. Her fingerless gloves, padded along the knuckles and the palms, were old relics from the gang days, and they were going to come in handy.

Moving quicker than Rumlow can, Natasha kicks him in the gut with the heel of her foot, and as he doubles forward, coughing, she yanks the bat out of his hands, throwing it blindly behind her (if she used it, she couldn’t guarantee that they would be breathing by the end of this—and Natasha has done a lot of things, but the last thing she wanted to do was fuck up her and James’ last chance). As Ward moves to counter her, she sprints and jumps, legs wrapping around his neck and she _pulls_ her weight towards the ground, and he falls forward, clawing at her thighs, wheezing.

Using her momentum to jump back to her feet, she kicks Ward as hard as she can on his side, and he cries out in pain, stumbling forwards— _that’s for Skye and Jemma, that’s for the gun, that’s for almost killing us in a shitty attempt to win a street race_ —and then Natasha tackles Rumlow, who was struggling to his feet, and pins him down, hands wrapping around his throat, and she squeezes.

“If you _ever—and I mean ever_ —come within a hundred yards of Steve, Sam, or Barnes again, I will _kill_ you. And they won’t ever find the body. And if I ever hear that you lay a hand on a girl who doesn’t want it, or _anyone_ again, I will end you. I will rip out your spleen and tear off your fingernails and you’ll pray for a merciful death,” Natasha growls, and Rumlow’s eyes widen, pupils dilating with fear. Deep down, she fears her reversion to how she was in high school, vicious and angry and violent, but this has to be done—she still can see Steve lying prone on the ground, wheezing when they scrape by death, and her rage overtakes her fear. Standing up, she delivers a kick to the side of Ward’s knee, who has been staggering towards her, grasping the abandoned baseball bat; and he falls again, a stream of curses spilling from his lips.

“And if you _ever_ wave a gun around again, loaded or not, you’ll disappear with him. If you ever go near Skye, or Jemma, or anyone who doesn’t want it, _I will shred your skin off with a dull knife_ ,” Natasha snarls, and pulls the knife from her sheath under her skirt, leveling it at them. It’s wicked, Russian blade, gleaming dully in the poor light of the alley, with a wicked point and an evenly balanced handle.

“ _I knew it,_ ” Rumlow huffs out, fingers hovering protectively over his throat where she practically crushed his larynx, “You’re her. _That black widow chick_.”

“She’s _dead_ ,” Natasha hisses, “and you will be too, if you keep talking. If you think I’m kidding, just fucking wait. The minute you step out of line, the minute you think you’re safe, you will vanish and _no one will ever find you again_.”

Spinning on her heel, Natasha walks out of the alley, back into the light of day. The sun warms her face, and she takes a deep breath, feeling empty without the protective rage that fueled her to drag them to a dark alley. Pausing to adjust her skirt and her hair, she leaves, grabbing her backpack from its safe spot and pulling out her cell phone from the front pocket.

Natasha has a few texts from Sam, who kept trying to send her links to the page on TV tropes that lists all the memes in tumblr history in chronological order; two texts from James, asking where she is and if she wants him to pick her up anything from Food Lion; three texts from Steve, a picture of a crazy steep hill, a plan detailing his idea to go sledding down it whenever they get snow and then a smiley face; one text from Sharon inviting her to the movies tonight.

Natasha wasn’t lying when she said the black widow was dead—she was. Natalia Romanova, who had no one except James and would knife someone for looking at her sideways, was dead. Natasha Romanoff lived instead, and had a group of stupid friends that she’d lay down her life for.

Typing up a few quick replies and then pocketing her phone, she begins to whistle and plot her next move to annoy James. As per usual, James had been blind to any romantic feelings between him and Steve, though the latter had already confessed his crush to her. She makes a mental note to ask Sam if he had any ideas, since obviously bungee jumping off of the library, competing in a street race, and organizing a riot hadn’t done the trick. _Yet._


End file.
